


Liberty

by KateAtTheClose



Series: The Socratic Method [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon Era, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Revolution, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 01:00:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateAtTheClose/pseuds/KateAtTheClose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire may have stopped drinking, but he is not yet truly free, and neither is Enjolras.  A sequel to The Golden Mean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liberty

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to The Golden Mean, in which Grantaire suffers through withdrawal with Enjolras at his side, so you might want to read that first. As before, I've drawn upon the book, musical, movie, and fanon in general for my characterizations, so apologies to purists of any kind. Additionally, withdrawal and depression are key parts of the story, so if that is a trigger for you, you may want to read another story instead.

-

“To perceive is to suffer.”

― Aristotle

- 

              The mornings were always the worst.

              Grantaire had grown accustomed to always having someone else with him, keeping an eye on him.  He hadn’t argued with Combeferre’s suggestion, back in the early days of his body’s violent reaction to cutting himself off from all alcohol.  For the most part, he preferred not to think about those hours and days at all; the agony, confusion, and waking nightmares were not something he was quick to reminisce about.  The physical pain aside, it was humiliating to have his weaknesses put on display for his friends.  It had been necessary to have someone around, in those early days, to keep him from harming himself or anyone else, to keep him from racing out the door to the first café he could find, when his own self-control failed. 

              It had been weeks, and for most of the day there was still someone always with him.  A part of him, quite a substantial part, in fact, was relieved that he was not alone.  In his darkest hours, he feared that he would be forgotten, abandoned, and alone at the end.  At the same time, he worried that so much time with him would drive his friends away, that he would alienate even Les Amis if given enough time.  His contrary nature warred between seeking the isolation that it thought it deserved, and fearing that kind of seclusion above all else. 

              Les Amis never complained, of course, and took their Grantaire-observation duty in stride.  They kept from gathering at the Café Musain for his benefit, and instead met at one of their apartments.  Grantaire knew better, though; he could see that he was a burden, an inconvenience, a child to be minded.  But he needed them, and knew in the depths of his heart that he was not strong enough to keep away from wine, spirits, and absinthe if Les Amis de l’ABC were to cast him out.

              The only time when he was truly alone was in the early hours of the morning.  As the clock passed midnight and crept towards dawn, his comrades took their rest.  Grantaire did, as well, or at least attempted to, but he would inevitably wake in the cold, dark hours of the morning, unable to get any more rest, alone with his thoughts.             

              That was why mornings were always the worst part of his day.  His head ached, his stomach roiled, and he sat alone in the dark contemplating every facet of his existence.  The urge for a drink was strongest then, too – it gripped at every aspect of his being, convincing his body that it was not just a simple want, but an all-consuming need, like the taking of a breath, or the thump of his heart in his chest.  It was in times like these, too, that the bleakest of his thoughts festered and swelled, and he found himself worthless, hopeless, and helpless.

              It was not a new experience for Grantaire, to have these thoughts in his head.  Misery was not new to him, but rather melancholia had been his constant companion as long as he could remember.  Drinking had helped, once – had relaxed him, elated him, helped him push the darkness to the back of his mind.  But it had always been quick to pass, and he’d needed to drink more and more wine to achieve the same effect, and then, without noticing, it had stopped working all together, but the drinking had turned into a miasma all its own.  Now he was perfectly sober for the first time in years, and he was defenseless against Melancholia, his lengthiest mistress.

              Of course, there was one thing that he did not have before, and that was Enjolras. 

              Enjolras was his most frequent minder, just as he had been in those hazy, painful first days.  It was the one part of that experience that Grantaire wished he could remember with more clarity – Enjolras constantly at his side, looking at him more softly than he ever had before, as if seeing him for the first time.  It had been – _he_ had been so beautiful it had ached deeply in Grantaire’s chest; but all of Grantaire’s experiences in facing Enjolras had always been an exquisite combination of pleasure and pain, so it did not surprise him that this should be no different.

              Thoughts of Enjolras made his heart beat more quickly in his chest, a staccato rhythm that brought heat to his wan cheeks.  They kissed, when opportunity found them alone, with bodies pressed together and hands roaming under waistcoats and shirts, heat slicking their skin and burning them from the inside out.  Enjolras burned away the darkness that gathered at the edges of his mind.  One couldn’t remain saturnine in the presence of the Apollo.  But then night came, the sun set, and shadows reached out with frigid fingers to drag Grantaire into the darkness. 

              So the long, cold, melancholy hours of the early morning found him agonizing over the question of just what Enjolras could possibly find appealing in one as homely as Grantaire.

- 

              Grantaire had been a painter, once.  He’d come to Paris to gain entrance to one of the Académies, or to find a master he could study under in an atelier.  Like any young aspiring painter, he was already imitating the Baroque or Renaissance revival paintings that had swept the Salons since 1785, with their structured perspectives and classical subjects.  He had an eye for detail and colour, and a mind for the symbolism and techniques necessary to render scenes from antiquity onto the canvas.  He had talent, and the ability to transform an empty space into a cacophony of colour and emotion.  

              But even then, there were days where he could not sleep, but was unable to raise himself from the bedclothes.  Days where eating appeared impossible, when speaking to another human being seemed an insurmountable hurdle.  Those were the days when he took a knife to his paintings and threw the strips of canvas into the fire, and hated himself for even thinking he could create something worth showing to the world. 

              The wine had helped, then, had loosened the knot of anxiety and self-loathing that had replaced his heart, had helped him get out of bed, find some bread and cheese, and smile at his landlady.  Wine had given him the confidence he needed to put a new canvas back up on his stand, to pick up his brushes and paints, and start anew. 

              But it was the idealism that broke him.  The impossibly beautiful posed figures, staged like an opera was underway in even the most traumatic of scenes, but each spinning lies about the realities they hid – deathbeds became places of triumph, mourning a heroic feat, slaughter in war a tribute to the victors.  The more time he spent in Paris, the clearer it became that artistic vision was heavily influenced by politics.  The irony that history paintings needed to reflect well upon the current monarchy was not lost on Grantaire.  It was artifice layered upon artifice, and it disgusted him.  But the alternative was the grand Romantic paintings like _The Raft of Medusa_ – but they glorified depravity and tragedy, and that was no better. 

              So more he drank, as it took more and more now to keep away the dark thoughts that crowded his mind and filled his limbs with lethargy.  He spent less time on his paintings, and more time at the cafés.  He met Jehan, who became a welcome familiar face amongst the Parisian multitudes.  Grantaire was well read, from the schooling he’d had in his youth and the insatiable thirst he had for the hows and whys of the world, so it was easy enough to lean against the wall, the bottle a familiar weight in his hand, and give his opinion on all and sundry, meeting the points that challenged him and sallying forth an argument or two of his own.  The wine and spirits loosened his tongue until the rhetoric slipped from his lips and illustrated the air like a brush on canvas. 

              He found a reputation in the drinking dens of Paris, and became known as a cynic, as a nihilist.  As a man contrary, obscene, and witty, a man always drunk, dishevelled, and mocking.  He knew all the cafés, all the smoking rooms, all the wine shops, and they greeted him by name in return.                

              Then, one day, when he took up his brush, it felt clumsy and useless in his hand.  After returning from the café his strokes were sloppy, drunk.  First thing in the morning, his hands shook until he’d had something to drink.  It wasn’t a choice anymore, but then, it hadn’t been for a long while.  Then one drink turned into two, and he’d gone out in search of more.  He stopped painting altogether, and the days slipped together in a haze. 

              In time, Jehan introduced him to the Café Musain, which brought him to Les Amis and, most importantly, Enjolras.

-

              Enjolras entered Grantaire’s room without knocking, quietly moving through the dim, blue light of early morning.  He need not have bothered, Grantaire thought, sitting as he was, wide-awake on the edge of his bed.  Enjolras sat next to him, close enough that their thighs brushed together.  Grantaire scrubbed his hands over his face and through his curls, and then Enjolras’ arm was wrapped around him, drawing him even closer.  It wasn’t a trial to lean into the touch, exhausted and sick. 

              “How fares Dionysus?”  The words were gentle, always unexpected from Enjolras’ usually impassioned lips, his breath just stirring the curls at Grantaire’s temple.

              Grantaire’s lips quirked in a half smile, his head aching.  “Dry, Apollo, dry as the leaves that have fallen to the ground and are one cold wind away from crumbling.”

              “Today makes it a month since you stopped drinking.  Is it still so bad?” Enjolras was quietly curious, but then, all Les Amis were.  This was an experiment, a trial that Joly had doubted he would survive - a doubt that still plagued Grantaire daily.  

              “Yes,” he admitted, fingers playing idly with the seam at the side of Enjolras’ trousers.  “And no – both and neither.”

              Enjolras gave a huff of a laugh.  “Always the contrarian.”

              Grantaire skimmed his hand across the plane of Enjolras’ thigh, sliding in and up, and he smiled as he heard the stutter in the other man’s breath.  He turned, and Enjolras was there to catch his lips with his own, to grip his shoulders in strong, firm hands, and press him back unto the bed.

-

              “You have something on your neck,” Courfeyrac told Grantaire conversationally, leaning back in his chair in Combeferre’s room and speaking over the general conversation as Les Amis planned and prognosticated.  His comment caught Joly’s attention, causing him to pause over a map and look over with a grin.

              “Hope it’s not contagious,” Joly said, but the mirth in his voice belied any real fear in that respect.  “Rashes, you know.” 

              Grantaire was busy hastily readjusting his cravat, but he caught Combeferre looking up out of the corner of his eye, and he followed his gaze to where Enjolras’ face was set in stone, looking pointedly away from Grantaire and focused on the table, clearly having heard Courfeyrac and Joly’s remarks.  

              It was an odd moment – Grantaire wasn’t embarrassed of the mark on his neck, and, indeed, the very mention of it brought pleasantly vivid memories of Enjolras’ lips on that very spot, but by some sort of unspoken accord, their intimate involvement wasn’t something to be discussed with Les Amis.  Grantaire, in disbelief as he was that Enjolras might care for him, and so very hesitant to do anything that might push him away, followed Enjolras’ example of merely friendly relations amongst their friends.

              But the question haunted him, especially in the early mornings – if Enjolras truly cared for him, why didn’t he acknowledge their relationship?  Grantaire’s mind was quick to rationalize that it was because Enjolras was ashamed of him, because he was a recovering drunk, because he was a cynic, because he was a man.   

              Les Amis knew exactly what was going on, and had known Grantaire’s feelings from the first.  They’d teased him about it, gently, kindly, pityingly, when he’d adored Adonis from behind his bottle.  When things between him and Enjolras had changed over those first few hazy, horrible days of sobriety, they’d stopped.  In their place were knowing glances and smiles, bemused, perhaps, but not baffled.  But they hadn’t explicitly mentioned it, or drawn attention to what they obviously knew was happening, until now.

              So Grantaire looked at Enjolras, unwilling to acknowledge something the other man didn’t wish spoken of, but reluctant to lie and pretend he had a mistress, and ultimately left silent.  Enjolras merely stared at the table, tense.  It was at times like these that Grantaire wished Enjolras wasn’t so beautiful, that he didn’t look even now like Michelangelo’s David, carved to perfection. 

              Grantaire looked down at the table in front of him, and pushed his suddenly clammy hands across the fabric at the knees of his trousers, aching deeply and horribly for a drink.

              A chair scraped beside him, and then Courfeyrac was standing, frustrated, eyes on Enjolras, “Look, we-” 

              The door was pushed open with a bang, and Gavroche strode inside, as if these were his rooms and not Combeferre’s after all. 

              “Hullo, gents.” He said brightly.  “The diligence is in from Lyon – the weavers revolted ‘n ‘ave the town occ-u-pied.  Thought you’d like to know.”

              There was a pause, then everyone started speaking at once, asking questions.  Enjolras quieted them with a raise of his hand, moving until he was in front of Gavroche.  “What else?”

              “Attacked the Guard, they did, and ‘ave themselves barricaded into the town hall.” He raised his hands in surrender. “’N that’s all anybody knows, ‘cept those that’s there, ‘o course.”

              Then Les Amis surged into action, with Combeferre and Feuilly sorting out how many broadsides, handbills, and pamphlets to order from the printer, Joly, Bossuet, and Jehan strategizing how best to speak to the multitude of different groups of workers, and Marius, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras with their heads bent together discussing how to frame what they knew of the revolt in the context and narrative of the July Revolution and future rebellion. 

              Grantaire listened and watched, idly suggesting a particularly pithy turn of phrase to the pamphleteers, which was mercilessly ignored for its lack of gravitas.  Naturally, he responded with a much more melodramatic option that invoked both Robespierre and Seneca, which got him a smile from Feuilly and a lip twitch from Combeferre.  He barely noticed when he took up a discarded pen, dipped it in the ink, and idly started sketching on the edge of a drafted handbill.  It took him a moment to realize that he could draw again, that his hands weren’t shaking.

              “So I ‘ear you’re a sodomist now, then.”  Gavroche said matter-of-factly.

              Grantaire’s hand jerked on the page, ink spilling across the face of the figure he’d drawn – Enjolras, of course it was Enjolras, now that he looked at it, curls falling across his forehead as he leaned over the table in debate.  He looked up at Gavroche, and realized that the voices of Les Amis had stilled into silence around him. 

              “I had exhausted the seven deadly sins,” he replied, and it was so easy for his voice to slip into his old, self-deprecatingly mocking tone.  “And I so want to be certain that Dante got the nine circles of hell in the right order that I’m determined to check them myself.”

              He didn’t look at the other Les Amis, only at Gavroche, who merely looked curious.

              “Only known gen’leman to do it for the money, is all.”  The boy said, and Grantaire knew the men he was talking about, who, like the lovely ladies of the evening, catered to the diverse tastes of Paris – for the right price.  If he hadn’t had such well-padded pockets, and if Jehan had never brought him to Les Amis, well.  God only knew where he might’ve ended up.

              “And I haven’t made a sous.” Grantaire was itching to look at Enjolras, but wasn’t brave enough at this particular moment.  “Perhaps I’m going about it entirely the wrong way.” It was a humourless smile that he gave, because he felt ill.

              “’Aire-” Jehan started, but then Enjolras’ scraped back across the floor as he stood up 

              “Orestes and Pylades,” Enjolras’ voice was as loud and clear and commanding as ever.  Grantaire looked up, and then he was there, at his side, his hand gripping Grantaire’s shoulder.  “Alexander and Hephaestion.  Achilles and Patroclus, Apollo and Hyacinth, Hadrian and Antinous, Nisus and Euryalus, Harmodius and Aristogeiton!  Why should a love so valued and idealized by the very people that founded Western civilization, democracy, and philosophy be shameful in our times?  When Plato in the _Symposium_ says that ‘love’ is the name for the desire and pursuit of wholeness, when Socrates talks of love as the search for wisdom, it is a love that does not exclude that for other men!”

              Grantaire was stunned, his breath caught somewhere in his throat, Enjolras’ profile above him impassioned.

              Gavroche’s eyes were wide, and Courfeyrac moved to wrap a protective arm about his shoulders.  “We know all that, Enjolras!” He was irritated, impatient.

              “Of course we do,” Joly pointed out mildly.  “We’ve read the classics.”

              “Ficino can sanitize them as much as he likes, speaking of Platonic or Socratic love as a reach for the divine, but that was clearly not intended when they were written.”  Jehan shook his head, smoothing out a broadside at the table.

              “Gavroche was merely speaking without constraint on a subject we’ve all censored ourselves from voicing.” Combeferre said evenly, eyes on Enjolras.

              “Which you’ve proven to be a sticking point with how tight-lipped you were at the mention of Grantaire’s neck.” Bossuet pointed out, and Grantaire touched the knot of his cravat again, almost unconsciously.              

              “I didn’t mean any-thin’ by it,” Gavroche said stubbornly, raising his chin. 

              “It would take more than that to offend my sensibilities,” Grantaire told him with a smile, but it wasn’t quite the truth.  His mind catalogued all the places in Bossuet’s apartments that he might find alcohol – a habit he could not break, especially at moments like this, when the demons clawed at the back of his brain and the world seemed far too sharp and painful.  Alcohol had dulled things, made them manageable – at least at the beginning, and that’s what he missed, most of all.

              “Feuilly, Jehan, go to the printers, get the best price you can.  Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly, Bossuet, and Marius, you know where to go – we need the artisans, the labourers, and the factory workers to know what has happened, for them to be inspired by Lyon’s weavers.”  By the time Enjolras was finished with his marching orders, things had been gathered and they were starting to depart.  Gavroche left at Courfeyrac’s side, and Combeferre paused by the door to lean in and say something quietly in Enjolras’ ear.  The blond’s eyes went immediately to Grantaire, who was unable to hear Combeferre’s words, but knew with uncomfortable certainty that they were about him.

              Then, suddenly, Grantaire and Enjolras were the only ones left.  Enjolras took the seat next to Grantaire, taking his hand and drawing it up to his lips.  He pressed a kiss to the back of Grantaire’s hand, looking at him steadily for what felt like the first time since they’d been alone this morning.

              “Combeferre says I’ve been cruel.  It was not my intention.” Enjolras’ words had the edge of uncertainty to them that Grantaire never heard in his voice until they were alone.  Unintentional cruelty – for one so devoted to justice and equality for all, the capacity for callousness came so easily to Enjolras. 

              “What was your intention?” Grantaire asked, dreading the answer.  He was an embarrassment, a broken, flawed man who didn’t deserve the love of anyone, much less Apollo.

              Enjolras pushed a hand across his face, exhaling slowly before he spoke. “This revolution – it means everything.  I know you don’t believe in it, ‘Aire, but democracy, freedom, equality . . . this is my life’s purpose, doing whatever I can to further our cause.  There are so many people whose liberty, whose very survival, depends on us, on me, that my own feelings are positively insignificant in comparison.” He looked at Grantaire, the hope plain on his face that the other man would understand his words.  

              “I can’t lead the people if I’m distracted, Grantaire, and you are so very much a distraction.” His eyes found the place on Grantaire’s neck where the mark he’d kissed into it was just visible above the fabric of his cravat, and the heat in his gaze caused Grantaire’s own blood to warm, even if Enjolras’ words chilled him to the bone. 

              “And, more than anything, we need the people’s support, to rally them to our cause.  Intellectuals and philosophers might understand the implications of Hellenism, but to the vast majority of Paris, of France, our love is nothing but a sinful act.  How can I introduce so divisive a subject into the already charged debates?  I wish for freedom, for you and for me and for everyone, but we don’t have that now.  But we may, if we bring liberty and democracy to the people, one day.”

              “So I was right,” Grantaire felt numb, and was not sure how the words could pass his lips.  “I’m not worthy of you.”

              Enjolras shook his head, vehement, taking Grantaire’s other hand so he held both of them tightly in his own, facing him and speaking imploringly.  “ _No_ , that is not what I mean.  What I’m saying is why I’ve been too cowardly to acknowledge you as my lover, even among our friends.  That I’ve been cruel, again, to even make you think-“ he broke off, bowing his head for a moment before he could meet Grantaire’s eyes again. “I love you, as much as I love Patria, as much as I love France, as much as I am capable of loving _anything_ in this world.  It is I who try to be worthy of _you_.”

              Grantaire gripped his hands back, their knees braced against each other’s as they sat so close.  “You do not wish to put me aside, then?”

              “I could not,” Enjolras admitted, quiet.  “Were I to even wish it, which is unthinkable to me.” 

              “So we continue like this, then – silent and tense among our friends?” Grantaire, always the sceptic.

              Enjolras shook his head, a half-smile lifting the corner of his mouth.  “No, because as was demonstrated today, we do not need to fear their loyalty.  All it seems to have served in attempting to keep my love for you out of our meetings is to make Les Amis angry with me on your behalf.  For my cruelty.” The smile was gone then, mouth drawn in a line. 

              Truly, anything Enjolras could do or say to him now was nothing to the rejection and dismissal he had faced prior to his enforced sobriety.  Now his cynical comments and witty asides were disregarded, of course, but with a roll of the eyes, a shake of the head, or a smile that seemed fond, rather than disdainful or disgusted.  Perhaps the evidence had been there, that Enjolras’ feelings in private matched those in public, and it was merely for appearance’s sake that he didn’t acknowledge the true intimate nature of their relationship. 

              “We can speak of it with them.  But not with those outside Les Amis – it can’t endanger our cause.  Do you understand?” Enjolras asked, imploring.

              Grantaire nodded, leaning in to press a kiss to Enjolras’ lips, which was received with fervour as the other man wrapped his arms around him, deepening the kiss to pull him closer.

              “I would never dream of getting between you and your revolution,” Grantaire murmured against the line of Enjolras’ jaw after he’d moved the small distance so that he was straddling Enjolras’ lap.

-

              Mornings were always the worst, but some mornings were worse than others. 

            Some days dawned grey and dim for Grantaire, independent of the weather outside the window. The world weighed on him heavily, making it impossible for him to rise from his bedclothes.  His head ached, light hurt his eyes, food became unappetizing and conversation difficult.  His failures ate at him from inside, his demons racking his brain.  Les Amis did their best, and he tried to sooth their worries, but he could barely imagine his own worthlessness could be so easily hid. 

           It was on days like this that they kept anything sharp or dangerous out of his reach.  Even he knew this was wise - he was a burden, and they would all be better off without him, and self-harm seemed far from a terrible choice.

           Even Enjolras couldn’t distract him, when Melancholia had her cold, possessive arms gripped tight around him.  He tried, with a tenderness that Grantaire would once have thought impossible, to draw him back to the world of the living with conversation or affection.  But Grantaire found himself unwilling and unable to respond, so certain that Enjolras would be better off without him. 

              On one such day, Enjolras sat in a chair across from where Grantaire stared out the window, despondent, and placed an impressively weighty tome on the bed.

              “I received this from Joly.” Enjolras started, pushing the book across the sheet towards Grantaire.

              Dutifully, Grantaire lifted the cover, and observed the frontispiece, illustrated in an unmistakable seventeenth century style.  It took him a moment to understand the title, as it was in English, and it was difficult to concentrate on days like this: _The Anatomy of Melancholy, What it is: With all the Kinds, Causes, Symptomes, Prognostickes, and Several Cures of it.  In Three Maine Partitions with their several Sections, Members, and Subsections, Philosophically, Medicinally, Historically, Opened and Cut Up._

            “Seems like a very comprehensive approach to the subject,” Grantaire said flatly.  

            “I started to read it,” Enjolras said.

            “Good heavens.” Grantaire said mildly, because he wanted to throw the book across the room, to lash out, to deny that he had the problem it was so very clear he suffered from.  He pushed the pages towards the cover, watching the words flip by until he came to the end, and then looked up at the other man incredulously. “Enjolras, it’s nine hundred pages, and entirely in English!” 

            “Some quotations are in Latin,” Enjolras replied, as if that made all the difference.  “Hippocrates, Aristotle, and Galen have all addressed melancholia, you know.  You aren’t the first to be so afflicted, and you likely won’t be the last.”

            Grantaire pushed it open to a random spot, idly paging through.  He was quiet, and he felt Enjolras move to sit beside him on the bed, his hand on his back.  He didn’t draw away, which was promising for both of them.

            “Did they happen to mention how to fix it?” He asked, more hoarsely than he would’ve liked.  He felt, more than heard, Enjolras’ soft sigh.

            “Food, sleep, keeping occupied, companionship.”

            “Ah,” Grantaire said, feeling numb.  “So nine hundred pages, and the same basic tenants of survival that any infant could tell you.”

            Enjolras pushed a hand through his blond curls, irritated, but even Grantaire could tell that it wasn’t with him.  “It can’t hurt to better understand it.  For me to better understand you.”

            “That’s me, Apollo.  A cypher.”  Grantaire’s voice was cynical and mocking, but he leant his head against Enjolras’ shoulder, and felt the other man rest his cheek against his dark hair.  “If only you found the key, you could fix me completely.”

            “I only want you free.  Free and happy.”  Grantaire could feel the rhythm of Enjolras’ words through his chest, and closed his eyes, worthless.

            “Perhaps I am just mad.” He whispered. 

            “’No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness,’” Enjolras quoted in response. 

            “I think perhaps you love Aristotle more than you love me and Patria combined.”  There was real amusement in there, somewhere.

            “Never,” Enjolras scoffed, and Grantaire tried his utmost to believe him.

-

            Most days were better.  Wine called to him, and Melancholia whispered in his ear, but Les Amis and Enjolras were a constant that gave his life action and meaning.  When it was only Enjolras and his lieutenants, Grantaire sat at his side, their knees brushing together under the table.  It was easy to fall into their old roles of noble leader and devil’s advocate, but Grantaire’s smiles were easier and more frequent, and Enjolras was warmer and more human than he had ever been.  They were teased, of course, but no more than Joly or Bossuet about Musichetta, or the others about their current mistresses. 

            When they were outside their own circle, as became increasingly common as November slipped into December, and then 1832 dawned around them, they were merely friends like any other, but Grantaire was not ignored. 

           There were 600 casualties the day of the Canut Revolt in Lyon, but when the government marched 20,000 soldiers to take back the city, power retuned to the King and the workers were in the same economic and political position as before.  It didn’t matter that the rebellion had been quashed in less than two weeks – some of the National Guard had defected to the side of the workers, and it only added to the ongoing rumours of demonstrations, riots, conspiracies, and civil unrest occurring all over the country, but especially in Paris.  

           Les Amis were busy, and were slowly gathering more and more support.  They spoke in the shadow of Notre Dame, and had the crowd echoing their words at the Rue de Bac.  Fifty students from the École Polytechnique had fought in the July Revolution, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac alone could speak for at least as many who were ready for a second opportunity.  Bossuet and Marius spread the word amongst the clerks and law students, and Combeferre and Joly spoke to the medical students at the Hôtel-Dieu.  The Rue de la Glacière, and the Rue du Champ de l’Alouette, with their tanneries, laundries, and mills, brought dozens of workers and destitute families out to listen.  Members of the Cougourde d'Aix joined them in the streets alongside labourers, artists, and artisans at the Boulevard de Picpus, the Rue de l’Estrapade, and the Rue de Grenelle-Saint-Honore. 

            It became clear that to continue their garnering of support and to widen the reach of their demonstrations, they would need to return to a public forum for their base of operations.  The Café Musain was the natural choice, and so Grantaire had to return to the places where he had sunk into a bottle in the first place.

            “You don’t need to come,” Jehan had told him privately after they’d agreed as a group that it was necessary.  Nobody had wanted to look at Grantaire, and even Enjolras had adverted his eyes and furrowed his brow. 

            “Of course I do,” Grantaire scoffed.  “What else would I do?”  Ever since he first laid eyes on Enjolras, his path had been decided.

            “’Aire,” Jehan said softly, putting a hand on his arm, and Grantaire’s gaze dropped to the ground.  

            “I can do it.” He said, after a moment, steeling himself to perform his own defence against accusations of his weakness.  It had been months since his last drink, but he still struggled, and there was no hiding that.  “I have to.”

            Jehan said nothing, then he squeezed Grantaire’s arm for a brief moment.  “If you don’t, you could die.”  Grantaire remembered – vomiting up blood wasn’t something he could easily forget.  He’d tried to ignore it for a time, until it became too serious to hide.  He’d known what caused it, but giving up drinking seemed like an insurmountable feat – until Enjolras had inadvertently made it a challenge, and then remained by his side throughout.

            “And if you somehow survive, we cannot watch you go through that illness again.  You are very dear to us, Grantaire, although I know that is difficult for you to believe.”  Jehan’s study of the Romantics had introduced him to the literary cult of melancholia, which, combined with the matter of knowing Grantaire the longest, gave him the best insight of all Les Amis into Grantaire’s demons.

            Grantaire shook his head.  “I wouldn’t ask you to, if it came to that – which it won’t.”

            Jehan smiled at him, fond.  “Of course you wouldn’t, but we would anyway, even if you fought us.”

            Grantaire knew as well as Jehan that if he survived drinking again, his body and mind most likely couldn’t take the trauma of withdrawal a second time.  Especially since Grantaire had the absolute, sickening knowledge that if he were to ever put a bottle to his lips again, he’d never be able to stop until there wasn’t a drop left.

            “And if something happens to you, what would happen to Enjolras?  To the revolution?” Jehan said, and while the latter was added with a tinge of humour, the implications weren’t any less true.  It was clear to him now – he was Enjolras’ weakness, and how he could the Achilles’ heel to one so strong continued to confound him.

            “I can do it.” He repeated, and he hoped with everything that he had that it was true.

-

            It was incredibly, insufferably difficult.  He noticed the bottles all around as if they were lit from within like beacons.  It didn’t help, but it was only natural that once they were back in the Café Musain, Les Amis started drinking again themselves.  They had to support Madame Houcheloup, after all, since they took over the upper room to her establishment once again.

            When Madame Houcheloup had seen Grantaire, standing sober and smiling sheepishly at the door to her café, stomach tight with nerves, the first thing she had done was stride over and kiss him full on the mouth, to the amusement and good-natured cheers of all and sundry.  He had been one of her most beloved customers, after all, since he’d drank so much of her stock, actually paid her the debts he owed, and was, all things considered, a fairly pleasant drunk.  The look on Enjolras’ face helped him through the next few hours. 

            He was sweating, irritable, muscles coiled as tight as a spring the entire evening.  As a former regular at many of the cafés throughout Paris, especially the Musain, many people recognized him and came over to offer greetings.  It was a strain, to be sober and social with these former drinking companions, to explain where he’d been all these months, when he’d never really known them all that well in the first place.  Perhaps unsurprisingly, many had thought he’d died, and Grantaire tried not to dwell on the voice in the back of his mind that told him it would have saved so much trouble for so many people if he had.  Les Amis sent him worried glances the entire evening, surreptitiously trying and failing to keep any glasses or bottles out of arms reach.  Enjolras and Marius led the evening, but Enjolras’ gaze, and, evidently, his thoughts, were never far from Grantaire.

            Ultimately, he survived.  It was a relief to step back out into the cold night with Enjolras at his side, the wet snow drifting down to land on his flushed face.  He didn’t stop feeling ill until they were back in his rooms, and Enjolras was pushing him into the wall, hand up his shirt, leg pressed between his thighs.   

            “Thank you,” Enjolras said finally, breathlessly, when they relaxed naked in Grantaire’s bed.  He leaned over to press another light kiss on Grantaire’s lips, propped up on an arm and looking at him.

            “Should I thank you as well?  Is this something we are going to make a habit of?” Grantaire said provocatively, knowing it wasn’t what Enjolras meant.  “Then thank you, Apollo, that was quite enjoyable.”  He was stretched out on his back, the sheet tangled somewhere around his shins.

            “You were very brave today,” Enjolras said, ignoring him with a smile.  He played idly with several of Grantaire’s dark curls.  Grantaire tilted his head to look at him, mouth quirking up in amusement.

            “I wasn’t the one giving inspiring speeches to the populace.”

            “You’re the strongest man I know,” Enjolras said without hesitation. 

            “Lets not introduce you to any more, then.” Grantaire said, smiling.

-

            It didn’t get any easier.  He followed Les Amis to all sorts of cafés, most of which were already familiar to him, but it was unthinkably difficult each time.  At least he knew what to expect, after the Musain.  He focused as best he could on the discussion at hand, adding his own wry comments as usual, but that wasn’t enough to keep his mind occupied.  He was so used to being in one of these places with a bottle or glass in hand, that he needed _something_ to do.  It was Feuilly who got irritated with his anxious, unconscious tapping on the table and pushed a pen and an old broadside into his hands.  The next thing he knew he had sketched and illustrated every blank space, and time had passed much more easily. 

            So that became his new strategy.  He brought paper and graphite pencils to the cafés with him, and he sat with the other Amis, and drew.  He’d learnt to draw as a child, and had mastered it in his youth, as his tutors had insisted he must before he was ever let near paint.  He wasn’t concerned with making any actual pieces, so the sketches he drew had no pressure to become consequential, and it was easy for him to just sketch whatever came to mind while following the ebb and flow of the discussion.  Since that was usually Enjolras, he forced himself to not incriminate himself or the other man by drawing anything too risqué.  

            Not all of Les Amis had known he used to be an artist, since he’d drank away his talent before he’d been introduced to most of them.  Only Jehan had ever seen one of his paintings, and no canvases remained in his rooms.  They were fascinated by his abilities, that he could render a person or scene on paper as if true to life.

             Free from the stylistic expectations of the classical historical paintings, so carefully structured, idealized, and allegorical, he drew things without worrying about whether they would sell.  He drew things as they truly were, without a care for the expectations of the viewer.  Feuilly, with his fans; Jehan, with his flowers.  His subjects were drawn from the cafés around him, or the streets on his way there.  Drunks curled around a bottle, barmaids leant over to tease, old men with withered hands and gnarled faces, prostitutes with painted faces, a man passed out amidst his cups, workers still partly in uniform, and children with dirty faces.  He played with perspective, too, rebelling against the structured scenes he’d so striven once to perfect, and instead illustrated things off-centre, tilted as if leaning to get a better view, with other figures in the way, or at odd angles.  Lighting wasn’t supernaturally perfect, but candles glowed unevenly on tables, or a hat hid most of a face, or shadows crept in to hide more than they revealed. 

            They weren’t beautiful.  They were ugly, true representations of all the grime and grit that life held.  They weren’t Romanticized portraits of tragedy or divine works, but instead brief glimpses of humanity in all its forms.

             They were in a café near the Place de la Bourse when a man looked over at Grantaire’s drawings and did more than just compliment them and move on.

            “Bold,” he said, stopping and taking the chair next to Grantaire, leaning back and studying him curiously.  His dark hair was parted on the side, and a mustache graced his upper lip.  “Very bold.  Which atelier do you work for?” 

            “My own.  I am the sole master and pupil.” Grantaire said, still listening to the thread of debate among Les Amis. 

            “Which Académie, then?”  He asked, pouring the wine he held into a glass.  “Don’t tell me you survive on commissions and still have time for idle drawings such as this.”  He offered the glass out to Grantaire, which caught Bossuet’s attention, who nudged Joly beside him and nodded towards the scene. 

            “No, many thanks.” He said firmly, not looking up from his illustration, and whatever it was in his chest that had tightened like a vice at the offer loosened.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Joly and Bossuet relax with smiles on their faces.

            “Ah, suit yourself,” the man said, dismissive, and leant back in his chair again.  “You haven’t answered my question.  You’ve clearly been trained, but I’m not familiar with that exact style.”

            “I live to defy expectation,” Grantaire said, looking down at his drawing and truly looking at it for the first time, trying to see what had so caught this man’s interest.  It was nothing particularly special, but an off-kilter sketch of the man nursing a glass of absinthe in the corner.  

            “How very mysterious of you.” The man said, amused.  He straightened his well-tied cravat, and brushed off his lapel.  “I take back my assumption that you sold commissions.  That is not the tone one takes when dependent on the whims and wishes of patrons.”

            “Do you look to arrange a commission, sir?” Grantaire said with faux politeness.  “Do you have a particular drunk or prostitute in mind?  Life models are, of course, preferred.”

            The man chuckled.  “No, I just expect to have heard about it if you had a painting in the salon last year, with a style like that.”  He reached onto the table and picked up one of the sketches that Grantaire had drawn and put aside.  “I particularly like this one.”

            It was of Enjolras, and Grantaire’s heart sped up as he glanced over it to make certain nothing gave away how scandalously he adored the man.  In the sketch, Enjolras was in passionate conversation, leaning forwards over the table, one fist raised above his head in a distinctly emphatic gesture.  He looked, as Grantaire saw him, like a classical statue brought to life, but with all the little imperfections that Grantaire had long ago committed to memory – the crease between his brows, the way his hair fell unevenly over his forehead, that his collar was loose about his neck and his cravat was off centre.  Beside him, on one side Gavroche stood, watching the proceedings with messy hair and unmistakable interest, and on the other leaned Combeferre, with his glasses slightly tilted and his sleeves rolled up.

            Grantaire looked up to the front of the room, and Enjolras caught his eye for a moment as he continued his point.  Gavroche was no longer beside him, and Marius had joined Combeferre at Enjolras’ side.

            “Then you have good taste.  Perhaps you ought to listen to their message, if you find republicanism at all appealing.”

            “The composition – were you at all inspired by my painting in last year’s salon, perhaps?”  The man watched Grantaire closely now.

            “Pardon?” Grantaire had to repeat the man’s words in his head before responding.  “No, I was otherwise occupied.”  He hadn’t been to an exhibition or museum at all for two years, having been much more interested in his next drink by then. 

            “Really,” the man said, sceptical, which Grantaire thought was rather egotistical of him.  “Eugène Delacroix.”  He said, holding out his hand.

            “Grantaire,” he said, shaking the man’s hand, and now his attention was all on the matter at hand.  Delacroix, unofficial leader of the French Romantic school, and acclaimed painter of _Barque of Dante_ , _The Massacre at Chios,_ and _Death of Sardanapalus._  

            “ _Liberty Leading the People_ ,” Delacroix said slowly, turning his eyes back to Enjolras and the back and forth he was having with a man near the front.  “Marianne on the barricade, leading the charge with the tricolour.  About the July Revolution, you know.”

            “You _are_ unmistakably fond of painting corpses.” Grantaire acknowledged. 

            “Not just the corpses, the men still fighting overtop of them, too.  There’s a boy, just like that one, holding two pistols, right at the front.” Delacroix pointed to Gavroche in the painting.  “And your leader there, he could just as easily be a personification of Liberty.  As a gentleman, of course.”

            “He would prefer the term ‘citizen’.” Grantaire corrected, but he had to admit that Enjolras made a fitting male Marianne.

            “They’re going to try it again, aren’t they.”  Delacroix took a long sip of his drink and surveyed Les Amis at the front, and the occupants of the café listening in around them.  Grantaire didn’t answer.  “I didn’t fight for my country, that summer, but I could at least paint for her.” 

            “A decidedly safer option.” Grantaire said, and Delacroix nodded. 

            “Oh yes.  The irony is that the king bought it for 3,000 francs.” He said deftly.  “Not so revolutionary after all.” 

-

            He took to painting, in the early mornings. 

            They were perhaps more of an insight into his mind during those times than anybody had anticipated or wished for.  Some were expanded off of the sketches he had done in the cafés: humanity, in all its imperfect detail.  Others were familiar images of the things that echoed around his mind – Icarus, whose wax wings had melted in the heat of the sun and sent him tumbling to his death, beautiful youths surrounded by plump fruit and blooming flowers that upon closer inspection were rotting and infected, Enjolras on the barricade with the corpses of Les Amis strewn about him.  The last, in Grantaire’s mind, was titled _Liberty Leading the People._  All were rendered with convincing realism, vivid colours, and a heavy contrast of light and shadow.  

            Enjolras did not like the barricade painting.  He looked at it, arms wrapped around Grantaire from behind, chin resting on his shoulder.  “Do you truly think we will fail?” He asked, quietly, the sort of question he would only ever voice to Grantaire when the two of them were alone.

            “I hope we do not.  But I fear that we will.”  It was easier for revolutions to fail than to succeed.  “I do not share your faith in people.  It’s too easy for self-preservation to outweigh your ideals.” He turned away from the painting, revolted by his own work, the image of Enjolras’ corpse a difficult one to forget, and wrapped his arms around the man instead.  “You are unique, of course.” 

            “I’m surely not the only optimist in all of Paris.” Enjolras replied, but he held on to Grantaire tightly.  “This is how the world changes, ‘Aire, because people take a stand in the face of tyranny.”

            “Everybody dies eventually.  We might as well pick the day ourselves.”

-

             In February, there was an assassination attempt on the king and his family in the streets of Paris.  It was a conspiracy, the rumours said, and some blamed the Republicans who wanted no king, and some blamed the Legitimists, who wanted a different king.  Either way, discontent was brewing over the long winter months, with food shortages and the price of bread making things especially difficult for the poor. 

            More and more people started showing up at Les Amis’ meetings, and they started holding rallies in the streets.  There was a time when Grantaire would have stayed at the café and continued drinking rather than attend such an event.  Now, he wouldn’t dream of missing it.  It wasn’t that he was any more inspired by their cause, but because he could feel, just as anyone else, that the time for action was drawing near.  Without alcohol to dull his thoughts and feelings, to allow him to forget what so gripped his heart, he couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing the revolution, and Enjolras, through until the end. 

            Preparations started in earnest – tricolour cockades stitched together, maps acquired, flags sewn, weapons and ammunition stockpiled.  In March, the rumours of dissent and unrest were joined by rumours of sickness.  By the end of the month, cholera had struck Paris, reaching into all the arrondissements but hitting the poor the hardest, as these things always did.  By mid-April, thousands had died, and fewer people showed up to meetings or rallies.  Change was a powerful motivator to a starving people, but the fear of deadly miasma kept many out of the streets and away from public gatherings.  The Hôtel-Dieu was overrun with cases, and Joly was beside himself with anxiety, a scented handkerchief on hand at all times to ward off dangerous smells.

            After a poorly-attended night at the Café Lemblin, Enjolras retired with Grantaire to his lodgings, then sat in silence for close to half an hour while Grantaire absently sketched the view out the window.  Enjolras’ back was rigid, his hands on his knees, face carved from stone as he stared at the floor, clearly seeing something else.  “You were right – self-preservation will keep the people away.”

            Grantaire moved to his side, and it was so easy to put his arms around him, and let a thrill rush through his veins when Enjolras leaned into his touch.  “Not necessarily.  Do you think the populace would rather slowly starve, die in their beds covered in their own shit, or die fighting for a chance at a better life?”

            Enjolras gave a humourless laugh.  “That’s one way of putting it.”

            “This is why I leave the inspiring speeches to you,” Grantaire said, pressing a kiss to Enjolras’ cheek, and Enjolras gripped his hand.

-

            Grantaire was right.  By the end of April, the people of Paris were back in droves, attending cafés and rallies and meetings, despite the thousands still dying. Cholera had sunk into the very foundations of the city, and didn’t discriminate based on age, gender, or wealth.  It struck down everyone suddenly, and in a matter of days they were gone.  Ultimately, though, the sickness outlasted the fear held for it, and became just one more trial for a people already used to enduring hardship. 

            A Wednesday afternoon in early May found them at Richefeu’s smoking room near the Barriere du Maine.  Enjolras led Les Amis in the usual speeches, attempting without success to inspire support in the marble workers, painters, and sculptors that were more intent upon their drinks and dominoes than words of revolution.  At Enjolras’ frustrated gesture, Feuilly stood and spoke of their principals and goals, of the changes they envisioned rebellion to bring that would empower the people and better their lives.  Grantaire sat at the next table over with Joly and Bossuet, idly sketching a man who was clearly losing at his game while observing the room through the smoke.  He knew, as well as any of Les Amis, that Enjolras was hoping that Feuilly’s working-class background might strike a chord with Richefeu’s occupants.  It wasn’t working.

            The truth was that Grantaire knew these people.  He’d been here more than a few times, back before his introduction to Les Amis, drinking and gambling on dominoes to pass the hours, surrounded by his fellow artists.  They were an enthusiastic group, when inclined, but words were words, and not all were so taken with skilled orators like Enjolras the way Grantaire was.  

            Feuilly said his piece, but at the lack of response, he surrendered the floor back to Enjolras.  To one who knew him well, the frustration was clear in the line of his brow, the set of his mouth that indicated he was clenching his jaw.  Time was running out, the day of action drawing near, and every minute, every supporter counted.  Enjolras started again, determination alive in his face, and Grantaire wished he were illustrating that instead.  Then, struck with inspiration, he rose to his feet, immediately drawing curious looks from Les Amis around him.

            “It is I, Diogenes the Cynic,” Grantaire said loudly, placing a hand on his chest.  Around him, several of the dominoes-players paused their games, and looked at him with curiosity.  Enjolras was staring at him, because this was not a witty aside, and he had traditionally only fully challenged him in the privacy of their meetings in the back room of the Musain. 

            “Out of your jar?”  Combeferre asked dryly, and Joly’s laughter was quick and loud at Grantaire’s side, joined to a lesser degree by the other Amis who were aware of Diogenes’ eccentric Athens’ home. 

            “And out of my bottle,” Grantaire replied easily, and that got more resounding laughs from around the room, as many around the Barriere du Maine were more familiar with Grantaire the Drunk than they were with Grantaire the Anything Else.  He wondered, at the back of his mind, how many of these men had assumed he’d died when he no longer frequented the cafés.

            “So you have come to speak of Robespierre, Danton, and Prudhomme, to warm up with principles and propositions hearts and minds grown cold and impartial with daily drudgery.  You have come to quote the Social Contract, and the constitution of the Two Year, and the Rights of Man.  To speak of the sovereignty of the people, how ‘the liberty of one citizen ends where the liberty of another citizen begins’. . .”  Grantaire gestured widely and grandly to emphasize each word in his quote, in an imitation of Enjolras at his most passionate.  The man in question was staring at him, frozen, and Grantaire couldn’t meet his eyes, not yet.

            “You’ve interrupted dominoes to indoctrinate Republicans.  And for what?  The revolution of the last century, for all its talk of freedom and equality, brought dictators, executions, and war, but the poor were still poor.  Grand ideals meant nothing.”  Grantaire said, and this was met with murmurs of agreement from the drinkers and gamblers around him.  He had to shake off the hand Joly laid nervously on his forearm, and beside him Bosssuet dropped his head to his hands.

            “The aristocracy and the Church lost their exclusive grip on power, the people were given inalienable rights, the _sans-culottes_ took their rightful place in the social and political sphere, and we gained a constitution – the Napoleonic Code and the Charter of 1814 declare men equal before the law.  Progress was made – flawed, incomplete progress, but it was not for nothing!”  Enjolras spoke, powerful in his defence as he ever was, and Grantaire allowed his eyes to slip past him – beautiful and terrible as always – before returning his gaze to the café around him.  Marius and Courfeyrac were looking between him and Enjolras, concerned, but Combeferre was watching only Grantaire, a thoughtful expression on his face.  _Do you see what I’m doing, Combeferre?_

            “The July Revolution, then.  The people took to the streets, built barricades to the tune of the Liberal press and the battle-cries of Republican students and hungry Parisians, fought for equality and freedom – and one king was replaced with another.  What does a different name on the throne matter?” Grantaire said, and there wasn’t a body in the café who was not listening to him, nodding along, but looking to Enjolras just as readily for a response.  Grantaire saw Combeferre lean over and whisper something to Feuilly, who surveyed the room, eyes wide.

            “It does not.  The July was twisted by opportunists close to the monarchy, used and bastardized for their own means.  Putting Louis-Phillippe on the throne went against the principles of a representative and elected Republican government, and his legislature is laughable.” Enjolras shook his head, and the listeners in the room were following him now, shaking their own heads, muttering to their companions and nodding their chins towards him with interest. 

           “But it showed the power of the people – that when they come together, fighting for a higher cause and the future that they want to see, they can make a difference.  Freedom and equality – these are not unattainable goals, but basic tenants of a France that is not out of our reach.  History has shown our struggles to make these ideals into a reality, but we grow closer, and angrier, and more powerful each time.  Soon, judgement day will be upon us, and when the people stand together to take back what is theirs from the grips of an illegitimate and oppressive government, will you stand with us?”

           There was a roar of approval from all around the room.  Grantaire sat down, and Joly grinned at him, clapping him on the back, while Bossuet still looked a little stunned.  Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Marius left their own seats, moving to speak to groups of men around the room, who had their own questions, concerns, and promises of support to make to them.  Finally, Grantaire looked up to meet Enjolras’ eyes, but he was no longer at the front of the room.  A touch on his shoulder made him look up, and there was Enjolras to grip his hand, and look at him with a look of absolute adoration that Grantaire might not have recognized if it hadn’t been on his own face since the moment he met Enjolras.   

-

            “You did that on purpose,” Enjolras told him later, when they were naked, sated, and sprawled out luxuriously on Enjolras’ bed.  There was no mistaking Enjolras’ primary focus on revolution, once you saw his rooms – they were littered with volumes of Robespierre and Rousseau, stacks of papers with Enjolras’ steady scrawl delineating arguments, plans, and quotes, and devoid of much else.  His bed was lit by a lone, flickering candle on a plain table against the wall that cast his golden hair and pale skin into fascinating lights and shadows. 

            “I had intent, but it depended on you properly responding, and not dismissing me out of turn.”  He said, head pillowed on the curve of Enjolras’ shoulder, fingers interwoven with his and resting just above his hip. 

            “I do not underestimate you now,” Enjolras promised, vehemently sincere.  He would never understand that Grantaire had always forgiven him for thinking the least of him, because that was his own self-image.  One morning, weeks ago, he’d painted a self-portrait that was as honest as all his recent works.  Enjolras had been horrified, fingers brushing over the already-dried paint that showed a man unmistakably ugly, with flaws in every feature and haunted eyes.  ‘This is not you,’ he said, perplexed, then looked at Grantaire again, as if something else about Grantaire had revealed itself to him, like an unlocked puzzle box.  He’d kissed him, after that, but held him tightly for much longer.

            “I love you,” Enjolras said, into the quiet of the room. 

            Grantaire said nothing, the question he always asked himself late at night and in the dark of the early morning circling his mind: how could a man like Enjolras love _him?_

            As if answering the unspoken question, Enjolras shifted, moving so that he was leaning over Grantaire, looking down at him.  “You are intelligent,” he pressed a kiss to Grantaire’s temple, “beautiful,” another to his cheek, “witty,” to his lips, “provocative,” and he kissed down the side of Grantaire’s neck, “I don’t know how I ever got on without you.”

            “I’m sure you would have stumbled along somehow,” Grantaire murmured, and Enjolras chuckled, breath warm against his neck. 

- 

            He woke to the grey light of early morning, and despite his warm words and actions with Enjolras, Melancholia took him by the hand and whispered terrible things in his ear.  By the time Enjolras had woken, Grantaire was sitting in a chair across the room from the bed, hands, face and canvas smeared with paint.  It didn’t matter what the subject was, because he’d painted over it in broad, angry strokes of black and now it was an indiscernible mess.

            “It wasn’t worth the paint.”  Grantaire said by way of explanation, without turning around, when Enjolras stood to look at it, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.  After a moment, Enjolras came to lean against the wall, looking at him.

            “Is it very bad today?” He asked, quietly.

            “Not the worst it’s been,” was all Grantaire could think to answer, and wanted wine like a drowning man wishes for air.  “It’ll be fine.  Just give me a few moments, and I’ll get dressed.”  Maybe it was true, and maybe it wasn’t.  He didn’t know for certain yet.    

            “You’re getting better.  Slowly, but it’s true.”  Enjolras said, brow furrowed in concern.  “You’ll be free one day.”

            Grantaire shook his head, frustrated.  “You wished to know me free, but Enjolras, I _am_ free.  I am as free as I may ever be – I am Dionysus, madness becomes me.  Not even you, Apollo, can absolve me of my demons.”  He looked up, meeting Enjolras’ eyes.  “I am free enough to choose what I do with my life, and I choose to follow you.  Always.”

            “Even to the end for a cause you don’t believe in?”  Enjolras asked, very quietly, moving forwards and gripping Grantaire by the shoulders. 

            “To the end of this life and beyond.”  Grantaire promised, and pulled Enjolras closer. 

-

            On the 16th of May, the Prime Minister died of cholera.  He’d survived a number of weeks with the sickness, much longer than most.  It hadn’t mattered, in the end, how many doctors he’d had, or how much he could pay them.  There was equality in death. 

            Things were picking up quickly now, gaining both traction and momentum.  The tricolour cockades were distributed to their supporters and pinned proudly to chests, handbills and broadsides handed out generously, and their supply of flags, weapons, and ammunition accumulating in their lodgings.

            It was nearing the end of May when they were gathered in the back room at the Café Musain, when Gavroche ran up the stairs, calling for their attention. 

            “General Lamarque is sick,” he said, slightly out of breath.  “Won’t last much more ‘n a week, or so’s they say.”             

            There was a pause.  Lamarque was a vocal critic in the government, one of the few in a position of power who had spoken out against king’s failure to uphold the rights and liberties the revolution had striven for.  His sickness, and inevitable death, would be a hard blow for the people who knew just how few allies they had in power.  Momentum, it was a powerful force.        

            “Outside his house, that’s where we rally.”  Courfeyrac said, and Marius was nodding in agreement. 

            From where he was standing next to him, Enjolras reached over and clasped Grantaire’s hand.

-

**Author's Note:**

> Research Notes: 
> 
> 1\. Depression and withdrawal are serious conditions that I’ve done my best to authentically describe in the context of Grantaire’s life and times. Everyone’s experience is different, of course, so please consult medical professionals if either are conditions you suffer from.  
> 2\. Grantaire’s artistic journey was inspired by Degas – you may know him as that dude who painted all those French ballerinas. He was an Impressionist born in 1834, although he preferred the term Realist, and people called his works appallingly ugly because of his style and subject matter. His painting L’Absinthe got booed off stage, which is a thing I didn’t even know paintings could do.  
> “Uh, Kate, certain aspects of impressionism came as a direct result of the new development of photography, and daguerreotypes weren’t developed until 1837!” Shhhh.  
> 3\. Diogenes the Cynic – this fascinating guy and notorious cynic apparently lived in a big jar in Athen’s marketplace. He liked to make fun of Plato and Alexander the Great (to their faces), was captured by pirates, and occasionally urinated on people who insulted him. Oh, and he was obsessed with this philosopher Antisthenes, who refused to be his mentor and beat him off with his staff, so Diogenes goes (according to Wikipedia) “Strike, for you will find no wood hard enough to keep me away from you, so long as I think you’ve something to say.” Sound like Grantaire? I think so too.  
> 4\. It’s debatable whether that Aristotle quote on madness is rightfully attributed to him or not. Just go with it.  
> 5\. Eugène Delacroix is the guy who painted that famous painting Liberty Leading the People, which is also known as The Lady Standing on Dead People With her Tit Hanging Out or That Coldplay Album Cover. That lady is Marianne, who represents Liberty and The Triumph of the Republic. Delacroix, according to Wikipedia, “was a curious mix of scepticism, politeness, dandying, willpower, cleverness, despotism, and finally, a kind of special goodness and tenderness that always accompanies genius.” I’ve leave it up to you to decide how I did on his characterization. Oh, and apparently he really did say this: "I’ve embarked on a modern subject—a barricade. And if I haven’t fought for my country at least I’ll paint for her."   
> 6\. A lot of the names and the quote Grantaire says at the start of the Barriere du Maine scene come from that scene in the Brick, property of Victor Hugo. Some other lines, here and there, come from the musical and movie, because I couldn’t resist. I bet you can find them.   
> 7\. The Anatomy of Melancholy book, the Canut Revolts, the Conspiracy of the Rue Prouvaires, and the cholera epidemic of 1832 were all real things (what did you think General Lamarque died of?).  
> 8\. I did plenty of research for this, but most of it came from Wikipedia (including all the quotes in my notes!), so apologies to anyone who is an expert in French history. . .


End file.
